Somebody Who Understands
by Little Miss Beatlemaniac
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a rude, arrogant individual who is very self-centered. But...is he really? Could a man named John Watson see through his stoic disguise and delve deeper into the real Sherlock who just wants a friend? Contains future Johnlock. You have been warned.
1. Prologue

A/N: I wrote this story based off of my own anger (even though it's not as severe as Sherlock's). It just sort of evolved into this. Hopefully, there will be less angst and more happiness in the next chapter. Also, this is slightly AU-ish, so the boys will meet in a different way. By the way, I apologize ahead of time for the slightly vulgar swear word written down in the 7th paragraph and it won't happen again.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock: Matt Geiss, Steven Moffat, and BBC do. But if I did, I'd insert a character that coincidentally(not) looked like me in the show so that Sherlock and I could become genius best buds.**

I am so angry with the world right now. Why does it have to be filled with such idiots and imbeciles?! Can't they all just die in a dark corner all by themselves or leave me the hell alone?! Everybody I know is so boring, so tasteless, so monotonous at _everything_. I grew up to be a misanthropic person and I continue to be so to this day.

Humans are stupid, ignorant pigs who often set your hopes up and disappoint you in the end. I don't know why I am part of their _species_, but I am _certainly_ not one of _them_. I say this because my previous boyfriend Jim just broke up with me and moved out of my flat. Apparently, he said that I was arrogant, cold, and that I never paid enough attention to him. What a load of bullcrap!

I am _not_ arrogant, I am a _genius_! I am _not_ cold, I am an _individualist_! I am _not_ ignorant, I am _busy_! I tried explaining all these things to him, but he just waved it off and continued making a list of what was wrong with me out loud. I hate it when humans do that. They just complain about nothing, accuse you of not being good enough, and stick to that as their excuse. As much as I hate admitting that I have cheesy human feelings, it really puts me down in the dumps and I feel homicidal yet self-destructive.

I get these intense feelings of angst and feel so angry at humanity that I can barely speak. When I am extremely angry, this tends to happen a lot. I'll just stop what I am doing and think about how much I wish I could annihilate all of my problems or kill the person who made me feel that way. I have a photographic memory, which is both a blessing and a curse brought unto me.

Whenever I am angry at or I encounter a person, I begin to think of all the things that he or she said in the past. Then I associate those things with what he or she is saying now. I think about how angry they made me feel, how stupid they are, and how ugly or annoying their voice is. It causes me to turn away from the idiot and seethe silently in anger, wishing I could punch the lights out of them.

The reason I cannot do so is because I would get fired from my job and nobody else would want to hire me as their consulting detective. They would all think that I had anger problems or was a drug addict just like other places did before this company I work for hired me. They did so very reluctantly because humans are like that, you know, what with doubting everything before they freaking _do_ it. Nevertheless, I was hired with the conditions that I be nice to everybody, I be patient, I step out of the way when I am told, blah, blah, _blah_.

Sometimes, on the _very_ rare occasion that I feel so angry that I can't sleep, I lie awake at night and think these deplorable thoughts that make me hate myself the next day. I think about how lonely I am in this son of a bitch world, how I wish there were somebody to support my back besides my snotty brother Mycroft, and how horrible I feel all around. I get so depressed and despondent that I do not speak the whole time. I only wallow in my self-pity and think about jumping out a window.

I remember one night when I had a rough day at work and I lay down in my double bed. I couldn't help but get all soft-headed and weak again. I began to think, much to my inner disgust, about how much I wished I had an acquaintance. I saw people walking down the street with their friends often, but that day after work, I started to _observe_ them for the first time. I sat on a bench and noticed them laughing, telling jokes, punching each other in the ribs, ordering coffee together, finishing each other's sentences, holding hands, cuddling...jealousy hit me square in the chest and made my heart grow bleak.

I had secretly longed to be like one of those people for a long time and I had never known until that moment. I will never fully appreciate human nature, but it would but nice if I had someone to confide in, I thought. Jim was never really that person. We never talked, touched, or observed like the people with friends did. Hell, we never even had our first kiss. I didn't often think of him as my boyfriend: just another individual who took up room in the flat.

Thinking about how lonely I was really struck me that night in ways that I could never have predicted. I thought about _myself_ for once, and how it could have been my fault that I was so hateful. Normally I pawned off the fault of a situation on somebody else, but when I was told that nobody would ever love me, I thought about why that might be so.

Every time I spoke to somebody, they were annoyed. I used to think they were just pussies, but that night I thought it was because of a certain tone I used. Every time I got angry with somebody, they were afraid. I used to think they were just dramatizing the event, but that night I thought it was because I became an unrecognizable monster in their eyes despite that they were strangers anyways. Every time I used nicotine patches or failed to be "nice" that day, they were disappointed. I used to think they were just a bunch of blithering idiots in general, but that night I thought it was because I failed to do what was best for the situation.

All of those were liable reasons as to why nobody would ever, in fact, love me. It was not because they were jealous of what I had thought was my greatness. It was because I was the most rude, arrogant, curmudgeonly, misanthropic, complicated, hateful, self-righteous, cynical, immature, stoic, and cold-blooded person that anybody, including myself, had ever known. For the first time in a while, a silent tear ran down my cheek. Instead of wiping it away, I allowed it to fall, leaving a trail of wet saltiness. It reminded me of me: an isolated enzyme with no structured path for following, trembling in its wake.

I did not dare to look at the pillow next to my head, for fear of its emptiness shattering my very soul. ...That is, if I even had one. All I knew was that it would destroy _something_ inside of me, like most people said happened when you were melancholy and depressed. I wished that there was a chance to redeem myself in a way by not entirely having to change my character. I wished I could get off my lazy arse and find _myself_ a friend to laugh, tell jokes, punch ribs, order coffee, finish sentences, hold hands, and cuddle with. However, there was just one problem with that: who the hell would want to be friends with _me_?


	2. Beautiful Sunrise

A/N: So, in this chapter we will get to hear from John's point of view a little bit, but the story will be mostly written in third-person P.O.V. I took the waking up with a nightmare part from Sherlock, but the event where they meet is planned out in my head.

Disclaimer: (read by Sherlock) The author does not take ownership of me or anything related to me, so we will not have to make these anymore. Thank God.

...Johhhhn~! HEY, JOHN! Could you buy some more milk?!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

Hands. Screaming. Gunshots. Blood. That was all he could remember of the nightmare before he woke up in bed, surrounded by a pool of sweat. It was as if he had been soaked under a waterfall of his own perspiration overnight. He was not in Afghanistan anymore, and none of the bones in his body were broken at the moment. His left leg, however, pained him and caused his limp. He was told that he had PTSD and there were only four words he used to describe such a condition. Pain...in...the...arse.

Dr. John Watson was his name, and he returned from the war with an injury not too long ago. He walked with a cane, much to his distaste. He was never a man who desired extra attention, but he nodded politely at people who acknowledged his limp. It was a drag, though the doctors and therapists had proclaimed that it would get better soon. John cursed to himself irritatedly, wondering exactly what "soon" meant to those people.

He sighed and got out of bed, unable to sleep any longer. When he made the mistake of looking back towards his bed, he was reminded of how lonely he was without a room-mate. He was a lot friendlier towards people for sure and sometimes he had a few people to drink beer with, but he very seldom hung out with them. He didn't know them that well and they had other, closer friends.

He decided to go to the park to sweep the cobwebs out of his brain and try to get his mind off the fact that he was alone. It was 5 AM, but he could care less. After all, in the war he had to get up _much_ earlier. He stepped outside into the dimly-lit streets of London and strolled in the direction of Hyde Park. It took a while to get there and by the time he did, dawn illuminated the city a little more.

John watched the sunrise and its emblazoned array of colors: red, pink, orange, purple, blue. Of course, keeping the typical weather of London in mind, he knew it wouldn't last. After all, as poet Robert Frost put it, "Nothing gold [could] stay". It was then, within that moment, that he noticed a quiet man on the bench nearby.

The man gazed listlessly at the sunrise with an almost expressionless face and kept completely still except for the gentle breeze whistling through his hair. John could not help but feel a sort of connection to the man, as though he knew he had seen something like this before. Then he knew: he reminded him of _him_. It was because there was a familiar feeling they both experienced that hid secretly behind their eyes: loneliness.

John often stared for hours at something when he was lonely as well, and the man's eyes compared to the rest of him looked so...sad. The right thing to do was to invite himself to sit on the bench with the man, and that is precisely what John did. He might not have smiled often, but he was very kind and caring to a majority of people. The man turned his head a little at the sound of the creaking wood next to him before looking back at the sunrise. They sat like that for a little while until John broke the silence.

"Err...hi," he said timidly. The man simply nodded and continued to watch the sunrise. John groaned inwardly. Why was small talk so freaking hard?! "Beautiful morning, isn't it?" he asked. The man turned to him slowly, an odd expression on his face.

"Well...yes and no," he answered candidly. John raised an eyebrow out of curiosity.

"How come?" he asked, trying not to sound too nosy. The man thought for a minute. Then he replied,

"On one hand, no, because I had to get up early and leave the apartment since Mrs. Baker was cleaning it and there are no crimes for me to solve today. On the other hand, yes, because I am looking at a nice sunrise and there is someone to keep me company while I do so, for once." He smiled at John, who only reflected back wonder.

"What's your name?" he asked. The man extended out a gloved hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, the world's one-and-only consulting detective. You?" he answered.

"I'm Dr. John Watson, the world's one-and-only crippled cynic," said John. They both cracked up at that bit of dry humor.

"Touché," Sherlock replied. Then he looked at John for real. "Why didn't you ignore me or throw an insult at me like other people usually do?" he asked. John shrugged.

"I dunno. There was an empty spot and it didn't look taken, so I just...you know, went for it. I mean, you seem like a pretty nice guy to _me_, and - " Sherlock looked at him as though he weren't telling the entire truth. John sighed and stopped blubbering a random answer. "Well, to be honest, it was because you looked like you needed some company."

Sherlock nodded and exhaled as well. "Thank you," he said. John's heart fluttered for some weird reason.

"You're welcome," he said almost effortlessly. They conversed for a little while and watched the sunrise eventually become a cloudy day. Their connection grew stronger minute by minute with each word they spoke. Finally, they both got up from the bench and Sherlock handed John his business card.

"My detective work is all done for free. Call me crazy all you want, but I do it for the sheer joy of mysteries. Whenever you need me to solve a case or you wanna talk, just give me a call," he said with a wink. John had a funny feeling inside that the gesture was meant to be flirty.

The man began to walk away when all of a sudden, John thought of an idea. If John was lonely in his apartment and Sherlock was lonely in his apartment, then maybe -

"Sherlock! Hey, wait a minute!" he called. Sherlock stopped and turned on one heel, sending a minuscule cloud of dust flying behind him.

"Hm?" he inquired, asking what John was talking about with that one word. John hesitated for a minute before saying,

"Hey, um...got any room in your apartment?"


	3. Unnecessary Touching

A/N: Okay, so on the day I introduced myself to the show on Netflix, I began to notice how Sherlock Holmes could not seem to keep those hands of his off of Dr. Watson. Thus, I was inspired to create this chapter, which consists almost entirely of him touching John for little to no reason. I like to think that he is socially awkward and therefore doesn't know the difference between touching a friend and, say, a romantic partner. Hee hee. ;-)

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

It had been a little more than a week since John moved in with Sherlock and he already began to notice that he had no personal boundaries. ...At all. ..._Ever_. He had to share a _bed_ with the man and while he slept like a baby by doing so, he was mildly disturbed by what went on.

Most times, Sherlock would kick his foot and John would kick back absent-mindedly before they began their own version of "Footsies". Other times, Sherlock would purr like a cat in his sleep and stroke John's hair whilst smiling dopily. Sometimes, he would cling to John as if he were his own personal teddy bear and tighten his grip every time he tried to leave. A few times, Sherlock would jolt in his sleep and sissy-fight poor John before waking up and apologizing profusely. One time, John and Sherlock were on the opposite side of the bed after a silly little fight and they woke up in each other's arms. Every time, John wondered at these.

In the morning, they went through the usual routine. John would sip some of his coffee and Sherlock would get bored, wrap his legs around his torso, and rest one arm around his neck and the other around his head. John would roll his eyes.

"Good morning, Sherlock. ...Get off my body, Sherlock," John would sigh after sipping what was left of his black coffee. Sherlock would oblige, though with a very reluctant look on his face.

"Good morning, John," he replied one morning, a "bored-out-of-my-mind" look stretched across his face. Then he got a new idea while John started talking.

"So, I'll probably have to go to the grocery store today and get some more milk and jam since we're almost always out of both, and - Sherlock? Sherlock, could you get your arms off my head, please?" he asked, suddenly. Sure enough, Sherlock had placed his arms on John's head and rested his chin on them. He took them off again, though very hesitantly. Then, he got a newer, better idea to solve his boredom problem.

"Like I said, I'll be getting some more milk and jam, I'll probably have to water the plants since you've been busier lately, I'll be filling in a few job application forms to get us more mo - _Sherlock_!" John reached for his newspaper and thwacked his friend upon the head.

"Ow," Sherlock whimpered, covering it with his arms.

"No! Bad! Very bad! Time out!" John scolded, as if Sherlock were a dog or a toddler of some sort. Sherlock pouted out his lower lip and moped in the corner for a bit. After all, he had crossed the line when he resorted to touching his butt.

"Hello?" Sherlock interrupted his train of thought by answering his cell phone. "...Oh, _really_? Brilliant! Bloody brilliant! I'll take it! Yeah, alright, good-bye." He hung up and rushed up to his friend. "JOOOOOOOHN!" he shouted, taking ahold of his hands and spinning in circles with him.

"_What_? What's so exciting?" John asked, laughing.

"We've got a new case and it's amazing~! Lots of blood and dead bodies and suspects, and, and - " Sherlock babbled on, still spinning with poor John.

"Sounds like it's a good one, alright," John agreed, knowing that those things were right up Sherlock's alley. They continued to spin when all of a sudden, Sherlock kissed him hard on the cheek. John blushed and touched the warm wet spot gingerly.

"_Woah_. Heh heh, um..._that's_ a new one," he chuckled nervously. Sherlock waved it off.

"I'm just so happy!" he cried, traipsing around the flat like a wild horse. Eventually, he stopped galloping all over the place and he took John's hand to drag him to the crime scene. Everybody stared as they ran through the streets of London and John groaned inwardly. He wasn't gay, for Pete's sake!

When they got to the crime scene, there were many bloody bodies lying across a railroad track that led to Liverpool and brought exported goods to it. Sherlock acted colder than usual when he was working, John noticed. He didn't pay any attention to anybody and his forehead wrinkled in frustration whenever somebody talked. He actually yelled at someone for breathing through his nose. John didn't like this. Normally, Sherlock was so giddy and cheerful when it was just the two of them, but when he was around other people, he just wasn't the same.

"Hmm...their breath! Their breath smells like chocolate! _All_ of them do! (Sniff, sniff!) Hey! Somebody thinks they're being funny! It smells like chocolate, but that person is not dead!" Sherlock proclaimed. Then he walked up to John grabbed his arms and sniffed his breath.

"Sherlock! What are you _doing_?!" John shouted, his face resembling a radish. Sherlock looked him dead in the eye.

"John, it is requested that you do not eat any sweets during this investigation, as it might screw up the results," he said coldly before letting go and getting back to work. John rubbed his arms, remembering how icy cold and blank his friend's eyes seemed at the moment. It was as if they went back a season, changing from a jovial spring to an atrocious winter. **What the hell?!** he thought, upset by all this helter-skelter.

Lestrade and Mycroft shrugged, while Molly began to carry the bodies back to the hospital. Sherlock's brilliant mind kept its gears running.

"Hang on! I smell something else! Wait! I got it! It's cyanide! I know that smell _anywhere_! The killer placed cyanide in a box of chocolates, these idiot people ate them, they died, the victim dragged them over here, he cut them with knives to make it look like they died there, and he ran away! Clever...clever indeed! But not enough!" he exclaimed zealously. Just then, he found an even bigger clue. It was laying on the ground nearby and it was called a wallet.

"Oh! What's _this_ jewel?" he inquired, picking it up and opening it. He gasped and pulled a funny face when he saw who the killer was.

"Of course! I ought to have known! Why, it's that bastard ex-boyfriend of mine, Moriarty! The box of chocolates was meant to be sent to me, but these morons took it out of their own selfishness! Come, John! We must go after him!" Sherlock ran up to John, picked him up bridal-style, and ran in the direction of Moriarty's lair. John's face burnt up in embarrassment.

"Sherlock! Put me down! Christ, man, I can walk and - _HEY_! Don't put your hand there!" he shouted, referring to the hand Sherlock had placed on his butt purposefully or non-purposefully. When people looked their way, he hid his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. This way, nobody would be able to see who he was and jump to conclusions about his sexuality.

As soon as they got to Moriarty's lair, Sherlock walked up to the voice-activated passcode and said in a high-pitched voice similar to Moriarty's,

"Unicorn." The passcode marked it as correct and they walked inside. Moriarty turned around in his evil throne.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Shitelock!" he sneered.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Moriarsehole!" Sherlock spat right back. Clearly, they did not like each other that much. "Look, I know it was you who committed the crime of killing all those people with your poisoned chocolates! So let's make this quick and easy or I will cross the line into a very uncomfortable area for you and no matter how much you beg and cry to stop, I will stay in that area until you are writhing in pain."

This Sherlock was a hell of a lot more intimidating than the pussy cat that climbed all over him that morning, John decided. Moriarty moved his head to look at the body hiding behind. Sherlock.

"Ah! Who's _this_?" he queried, as if John were a toddler. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in a hug and replied gruffly,

"This is John...my boyfriend."

John blushed so brightly that he thought a vein had bursted in his cheeks. Moriarty scoffed at the sight.

"Trifle with your new boyfriend all you want, Holmes, but you will never elicit a response from _me_!" he proclaimed. Sherlock began to stroke John's hair.

"Oh _my_. Do I detect _jealousy_ in that voice of yours, _Jim_?" he purred nonchalantly, pulling a Cheshire Cat face. In the next few minutes that followed, Moriarty ripped Sherlock off of John and they began an intensified fist fight. John was getting tired of all of this nonsense, so he did the only thing he could think of: he pulled out his pistol.

"_Hey_!" he shouted, causing both men to look at him. He breathed heavily and pointed the pistol in Moriarty's direction. "If you throw another punch, I _will_ shoot you! And I am a dead-eye shooter!" There was a pause between all three men. Then, Moriarty ran off.

"That's right, Moriarty! Run away, like you do with _all_ of your problems! You may be evil, but you're a coward right to the bone!" Sherlock shouted after him before picking up John and departing back home. This time, John didn't bother arguing. Even though he left his cane a week ago, it still hurt to walk sometimes. As long as he was getting free transportation now, why should _he_ complain?

Once they got home, John cornered him about his strange behavior.

"What the bloody hell was _that_?!" he demanded.

"_What_?" Sherlock asked, shrugging.

"You know very _well_ what! Why did you act so cold and distant at the crime scene today instead of like you _usually_ do?!"

"Actually, John, that _is_ how I usually act," Sherlock interrupted, his voice coarse and shaking. John's face became solemn immediately and he sat up in his seat. "You see, nobody else has seen the side of me that you see. I build up this reputation as being a rude and unloving bastard so that nobody else dares to venture near me. I don't think I mean to, it just happens, you know? As a genius, it gets a little obnoxious when nobody else is on my level, so I just... I freak out. I have terrible people skills since everybody has that little..._thing_ that irritates me. But you're _different_, John. You see me not for who I am not, such as a nice, caring, sweet person like you. You see me as a lost little boy who just wants a hand to hold that will lead him out of the dark."

Sherlock's eyes became a tinge of light pink and a tear rolled down his cheek. Guilt washed over John like a burdened tidal wave. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he felt that it wasn't a strong enough action to take. He looked at the distressed face a little longer before making his decision. **Screw personal boundaries,** he thought, as he walked forward to comfort his friend. As soon as he enveloped Sherlock in his embrace, the taller man drew in a sharp inhale and exhaled a quaking sob. He dug his fingernails into his shoulder plates and buried his face in the side of his neck. John tilted his chin upward to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, closed his eyes, and rubbed his back.

They stayed like that for at least an hour until Sherlock was reduced to nothing but sniffles and hiccups. That night, when they were in bed, Sherlock wrapped his arms possessively around John's body and mumbled childishly,

"_No_, Mycroft! _My_ teddy bear! Get your _own_!" John laughed at the five-year-old tone of voice before succumbing to the strong hold and getting as comfortable as he could. If there was anything he learnt that day, it was that Sherlock had been strong for far too long and that he needed all the help he could get from his friend. ...Even if that meant allowing him to touch him unnecessarily.

A/N: Is anybody else starting to think that they should've called this show "Unnecessary Touching?" By the way, sorry this chapter was extra long.


	4. We're Lost, You Idiot

A/N: So, I've decided that these upcoming chapters will be a bunch of silly little "stories" that build up Sherlock and John's relationship until it becomes as strong as possible. This is the first of these, in which the two men decide to go camping (or rather, John decides and Sherlock grudgingly goes with it) in America. Enjoy!

Please R & R!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

"For the last time, John! No means _no_! I don't want to go frolicking off in some woody wasteland, I have _better_ things to do!" Sherlock scolded. John raised an eyebrow at him as if he were saying, "Oh, _really_?".

"Aw, come on, no you don't! _Please_?!" John begged, pouting his lower lip and bringing out his best puppy-dog eyes. Sherlock tried not to look into those eyes and give in to the forces of cuteness. **You can do this, Sherlock! You must resist at all costs or else you'll get sucked into his manipulative trap! Oh, but those ****_eyes_****, though! They're so ****_cute_**** and ****_innocent_****, and - dammit, I just can't say 'no'!**

"Ugh, fine. ...But on one condition!" Sherlock requested, trying not to sound like he was being submissive.

"Okay, shoot," said John. As long as they got to go camping, he would gladly kill a man if he were told to. A sly grin appeared on Sherlock's face that filled John with slight dread.

"You have to share a sleeping bag with me," he taunted, watching with jubilation as John's face turned crimson and he looked away. Sherlock did almost _anything_ to make John blush. He adored how well it suited him. Poor John bought the plane tickets while Sherlock kept being a weirdo and stroking his hair.

They got on the plane that day and landed at midnight, EST. This was because they had to cross the Prime Meridian. Exhausted out of their minds, they decided not to bother with booking a hotel and they slept on some chairs in the airport. Sherlock whimpered in his sleep, because he couldn't reach John and cuddle him. John looked over to him and rolled his eyes.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he sighed, before shrugging, getting out of his seat, and laying down in Sherlock's arms. The taller man breathed happily and smiled in his sleep, wrapping his arms around John's frame. "Teddy...you've come back!" he sleep-yelped, referring to John once again as his teddy bear. John closed his eyes drowsily, allowing the warmth to surround him.

The next day, the two men rented a car. Sherlock insisted upon driving, much to John's concern. He didn't quite trust Sherlock's road skills. ...Okay, fine, he had no faith in him. He kept driving on the left side instead of the right side, he ignored traffic rules, and he kept looking for non-existent round-abouts. At one point, they had to swerve out of the way of a van approaching from the left side. Their car drove down the hill before the emergency brake was pulled and Sherlock toppled onto John. He lay on top of him, just inches away from his face.

"Hi," Sherlock greeted ever-so-innocently before the air bag activated above them. John blew a fuse and pushed Sherlock off of him.

"That _does_ it! _I'm_ driving now, and _you're_ going to _like_ it!" he fumed. Sherlock held up his hands in resignation.

"Geez. Yes, _Mum_," he replied. John got behind the wheel and let out a huff of air like a bull in a tournament. Sherlock chuckled to himself and leaned his head on John's shoulder. **So ****_cute_**** when he's angry,** he thought. John drove for quite a while before he realized that they had already passed that sign...and that bush...five times.

"Wh-What's going on?!" he panicked, running his fingers through his hair. Sherlock sighed tiredly.

"We're lost, you idiot," he camp site was nowhere to be found, so they decided to screw it all and go to a random place in the woods. Sherlock did not approve of the situation. "Where are you supposed to take a piss?!" he exclaimed, when they got out of the car and observed their surroundings. John pointed everywhere and Sherlock followed that finger with a disgusted face.

"Moron, they're _everywhere_. They're called trees and you go behind them. And no, in case you were about to ask, they do _not_ have toilets behind them." Sherlock was, in fact, about to inquire as to whether there was a toilet behind every tree. There were more questions he had as well, such as -

Where's the bath tub?!" John did not want to know why a thirty-something-year-old man still bathed, but he answered the question anyways.

"Over there...in that lake." Sherlock's right eye twitched.

"In _that_ thing?! There's snakes, snapping turtles, bacteria, and it's cold as hell!" he complained. Even so, he asked another question. "How come I don't have Wi-Fi?!" John answered that question as well.

"There _is_ no Wi-Fi. Just us and Mother Nature. Sorry, buddy." Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted. John sighed and mumbled something about "melodramatic idiots" before dragging him to the car and splashing water in his face. Then, the two of them began to set up the tent. Or rather, John did most of the work and Sherlock got annoyed by the poles poking his face.

Eventually, he got so annoyed that he let out a roar and snapped the poles in half. He turned to see John's stern face and moped immediately.

"Well, hopefully there will be no rain tonight. I guess we'll just have to sleep under the stars," he said. Sherlock could feel his eyes glaring daggers at him. Later day, they were hiking up a mountain.

"John, I'm tired! Can we stop?!" Sherlock whined.

"Oh, you poor baby! You ride on my back halfway up the mountain and now your poor widdle legs are tired! Your life must _REALLY_ _STINK_!" John snapped. Sherlock's eyes expanded before he stroked John's hair.

"You're a grumpy old man," he chuckled. John fumed silently. Next, they went bird watching.

"So _exciting_," Sherlock criticized sarcastically, making jazz hands.

"Hush, Sherlock. I just found a red-breasted robin," John whispered, observing the creature with his binoculars. Sherlock sulked under the pine tree branches before coming up with an idea to kill off his boredom temporarily. John continued to watch the birds, naming them off. "There's the yellow-breasted Warbler. And there's the orange-breasted Oriole. And there's the Sherlock. And there's the - wait..._Sherlock_?" he looked back to where he mentioned his name.

Sure enough, Sherlock was out in the open, flapping his arms and twittering.

"Ca-caw, ca-caw! Lookit, John, I'm a bird! Ca-caw, ca-caw!"

"Sherlock! Sh! You're scaring away all the birds!" John scolded, but it was too late. They all flew away. Then, he decided to take Sherlock for a canoe ride in the lake.

"Borrrring~!" Sherlock announced for all of Canada to hear in a singy-song voice. John laughed whilst rowing the boat.

"Now, Sherlock, why don't you give camping a chance instead of keeping such a closed mind around everything you encounter? Who knows...maybe something eventful will happen soon," he said a little more mischievously than usual. Sherlock perked up immediately at that.

"_Really_? Like _what_?" he asked eagerly. John smirked.

"Like _this_!" He pushed Sherlock over the edge of the canoe and he toppled into the water, screaming. SPLASH! Bubbles floated up to the surface before he emerged with a huge breath, soaking wet. He treaded water with an open smile for a second before he threw his head back with laughter.

"Oh, you are so _dead_!" he shrieked, his laughter still audible. John laughed at him a little more before he felt a tug on his arm and he, _too_, was dragged into the water. Once he resurfaced, they laughed and splashed water at each other like young children in the summer. Sherlock glided like a dolphin, and John floated on his back. Both of their clothes were _soaked_.

Later that evening, John and Sherlock built a fire and they were snug and warm in their pajamas, cooking hot dogs. Sherlock had a look of deep thought etched across his face.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked curiously. Sherlock sighed exhaustedly.

"You know, John, I was thinking about how I complained almost all day about how horrible camping was and yet...in the end, it's not so bad. Dare I say it, I may actually _fancy_ it." John looked over to him and smiled genuinely.

"I _knew_ you'd come around. Cheers," he said, holding up a beer and clinking it with Sherlock's before drinking. They both spat it out at the same time.

"This is _disgusting_!" Sherlock snickered, wrinkling his nose.

"Well, it's definitely not a Copper Dragon," John agreed, chuckling and squinting his eyes.

That night, both men were tucked safely into the single sleeping bag they shared and watching the stars up above. John pointed out a few constellations and Sherlock listened with mild interest. Crickets chirped their symphonies and a gentle night breeze whistled through their hair, occasionally nipping at their ears and noses.

"You know...this is nice. If nothing else, I like the serenity and beauty of this place. It's a wonder that man doesn't come into contact with nature more often," Sherlock remarked.

"I figured you would come to like it eventually. It may be a little out of your comfort zone, but at least it's a great way to spend a vacation," said John. Sherlock smiled sincerely.

"Nothing's out of my comfort zone when I have a friend to experience it with." John felt the sentiment in that message and blushed heavily before yawning.

"Well, it's been a long day for the both of us. We should probably get some sleep. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John." The two men curled up and Sherlock once again wrapped his arms around John. Except THIS time, John didn't mind. He never knew it, but he secretly longed to be held that way by such a hot, amazing man like Sherlock - wait..._what_? That night, it took longer than usual for John to sleep.

Even with Sherlock's rhythmic breathing pattern and the warmth of the sleeping bag, John was still kept awake by the battle in his head as to whether he was gay and had a crush on Sherlock, or not.


	5. Tea and Coffee

**A/N: This is the second part of the relationship-building chapters. Sorry if John's feelings felt a little rushed, but I figured that they knew each other for a while. I will space everything out a bit more and write out the sudden feelings so that they make this chapter, Sherlock and John visit Boston and experience a role-play of the famous Tea Party that took place along with their trusty cups of coffee. Enjoy! Please R & R!**

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

John kept his eyes glued to the road, his hands glued to the wheel, and his ears glued to the GPS he bought after Sherlock's insistence, but he kept his mind glued to the sore subject of his maturing feelings for his best friend. None of it made any sense to him.

Why would John date a bunch of pretty women he knew and drool over them and yet still have feelings for Sherlock, let alone a _man_? He couldn't _possibly_ be gay! .._Could_ he? He often argued that he wasn't gay _because_ he had feelings for women, but was that really an excuse?

Little did John know that some gay men had entered heterosexual relationships at least once in their life. He just figured that they knew who they were when they got older so they started dating guys right away. He never considered the possibility that those gay men explored their options throughout life. Even with a lesbian sister, he took them for granted.

There was another interesting little tidbit of information that John didn't know about. He had no idea that whenever a man reacted sensitively to being called gay it sometimes meant that he _was_. John had the tendency to get angry over being called gay, which allowed people to assume so with a supportive reason.

John completely ignored these secret facts that would later sneak up on him before pouncing like a tiger. There were two sides of him that appeared: the angel John and the devil John. The angel John represented the "good" side, telling him he wasn't gay and the devil represented the "bad" side, telling him he was. The poor clueless soul had no idea that it was actually the _other_ way around.

"John, be a good young man and come back to reality. You do not love him. You love women. Remember?" Angel John said.

"Aw, don't listen to him! He's lying! You may 'love' women, but you are head over _heels_ for this man! I mean, just _look_ at him! Silky brown tresses, gorgeous eyes of blue, aquiline nose, hella great body structure...if I were you, I dunno what I'd be _waiting_ for!" Devil John retorted.

"Excuse me, but that would be much more attractive on a _woman_! If he were a _woman_ it would be attractive, but Sherlock is no woman. Right, John?" Angel John cut in. John was too busy looking in the direction Devil John was pointing in.

"See? Lookit how _cute_ he is when he's asleep! Lookit those long eyelashes resting on his angular cheekbones and his curled-up position, and his soft breathing. Mmm...don't those lips just look _kissable_?" Devil John cooed. John stared at Sherlock, an evident look of longing on his face. He _did_ look pretty adorable, he supposed.

"No, John! No he's not! There are other people, more specifically other _women_, who are adorable in their sleep!" Angel John scolded. John, having made his decision, was done with him.

"Hey, look! A hot lady angel!" he shouted, whilst pointing nowhere. Hearts appeared in Angel John's eyes.

"_Where_?!" he cried. Flick! John flicked him off his shoulder and he tumbled off. "You're dead to meeeee!" Angel John shouted, before flying away. John laughed and high-fived Devil John.

"You're _right_, Devil John! Sherlock _is_ adorable. And it's not just his looks, either. It's his personality that made me first start falling for him. He has one of the most beautiful minds in the whole Universe and he's vulnerable in his own special way. I...I really like him," John admitted. Devil John thought a minute before nodding slowly.

"Yes, well, I must be going now. Catch you later!" he called, disappearing back into John's conscience. John waved good-bye before gluing his eyes back on the road. It felt so nice to get that heavy weight off of his chest even of he was technically just coming out to himself. It had been almost a year, and just _now_ John realized that he loved Sherlock.

They stopped at a coffee place and John woke Sherlock up with hesitation. Inside the coffee shop, Sherlock ordered an espresso and John ordered a cappuccino. Then they continued driving to their destination. The place they were visiting was the site of the Boston Tea Party where the Americans rebelled against the British and their expensive income taxes.

"It's no _wonder_ Americans drink coffee," Sherlock joked.

Once they got to Boston in the late afternoon, they parked near the Boston Children's Museum and walked to the great colonial ship, the Eleanor. There, many people were dressed up as if they lived in the 18th century and they were teaching children how to tie sailor knots. Adults lurked about with their friends. After sitting down and twiddling his thumbs for twenty minutes, Sherlock complained that he was bored. John was about to scold him when all of a sudden, a young man in a tricorn hat walked up to them.

"Excuse me, but are you both British?" he asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That is none of your business, you ars - "

"Yes! Yes we are! Why?" John interrupted, keeping Sherlock from insulting the man. The man only smiled and said,

"Well, I've just never seen a British man drink coffee before. I just figured you were "tea" guys, what with being from Britain and all," he said. Sherlock fumed.

"Just because we're from England doesn't mean - "

"Excuse us a sec," said John, before dragging Sherlock to the far corner of the ship. "Sherlock! Would you tone it down a bit?!" he whispered.

"Look, I'm sorry, but that was just plain racist! I'm _English_, dammit, not _British_! There's no such freaking thing as a 'British' person! And anyways, I can drink what I damn well _please_! I suppose that idiot thinks we go around saying shite like 'tuppence' and 'pip pip cheerio'!"

"_Sherlock_! Look at me," John commanded, making him look by placing his hands on his temples. _That_ got his attention. "It's okay. Sometimes people are idiots who don't look into other cultures besides their own. _You_ know that. _I_ know that. We _both_ do. And while it stinks to be a victim of racism and stereotyping, it only makes us stronger in the end for putting up with it."

There was a sincerity to John's words that Sherlock hadn't often heard before. He quite liked it. John smirked and added as a side note,

And besides, he's only, like, sixteen. What the hell does _he_ know about the cultures and traditions of every country?"

Sherlock chuckled and took a few deep breaths. When he was calm enough, they walked back over to the man.

"Ah, good! You're back! Hey, maybe you Brits can teach me how to speak _your_ way! My impression's pretty good so far! *Ahem*...'Good day, mate! Shrimp on the barbie!' You like it?" he said.

"What a bastard," Sherlock whispered angrily. John whistled and led him to some other people by the hand. No need to spend time around one person.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time to proceed throwing tea crates into Boston Harbor," a woman announced. "On the count of three, we shall begin throwing the crates. One...two...three!" Everybody grabbed some crates and began throwing them into the sea as if they were American rebels.

"Take _that_, King George!" a girl exclaimed, causing Sherlock and John to laugh. They came up with trash-talk of their own.

"Give me coffee or give me death!" John snickered.

"Drink coffee or die!" Sherlock cackled.

They watched the water surrounding the ship brown with tea ingredients and cheered. Next, everybody went to Abigail's Tea Room for supper. The refreshments available for purchase were water, iced tea, popcorn, beer, wine, clam chowder, pies, stews, sandwiches, cheese and crackers, and cookies. Naturally, everybody felt stuffed after the meal, so they went back to the ship to relax for half an hour.

Sherlock began to fall asleep when he whispered John's name. John knew what to do. He leaned against his shoulder and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his frame while resting his head against John's. They both began to doze off when the man from earlier came up to them.

"You know...you're a weird bunch. But I like you," he chuckled. Then he walked off to join some friends he knew and left the two men to nap in peace. They fell asleep sitting up and awakened once the half hour had passed. Some people dressed as famous Boston residents came on board. The "names" of these people were John Hancock, Paul Revere, and Samuel Adams. One by one, everybody asked their questions.

"Is it true that you were a silversmith apprentice at one point?" a girl asked Paul Revere.

"Didn't you own a large property?" a boy asked John Hancock.

"Are you related to the Addams family?" some twins asked Samuel Adams.

Every man said "Yes", except for Samuel Adams. The man dressed as Paul Revere walked over to Sherlock with his eyes widened in mock curiosity. He took his cell phone out of his hand.

"Hey - !" Sherlock shouted, but John held him back.

"Don't worry, he's just pretending. He'll give it back," he assured. Paul Revere held the phone in his hand, examined it, and pretended to be frightened when he took a picture of himself by mistake.

"Why...I wonder what _this_ is. Hey John, do _you_ know?" he inquired, handing the phone to John Hancock.

"Why...I've never seen anything _like_ it," he breathed, stroking the cellular object. Sherlock bursted into a fit of giggles. Paul Revere looked up in sudden realization.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" he exclaimed. He swiped the cell phone out of John Hancock's hand and gave it back to Sherlock. "I beg your pardon, sir, it's just that we've never seen anything _like_ this before." Sherlock smiled and played along.

"That's okay, son. Thank you!"

"You're welcome!"

Paul Revere and John Hancock walked off to some other people and Sherlock noted how good they were at acting. After the three men left, it was time to dance. A man began playing on his pocket fiddle and others joined him. Everybody else was waltzing to the music, but Sherlock observed and said,

"_We_ could do better than _that_." John's face flushed with realization.

"Y-You mean..." he blubbered.

"_Yes_. John Hamish Watson, may I have this dance?" Sherlock queried, holding out a hand for John to take or ignore. John blushed darker before he nodded slowly.

"Yes. Yes you may. Heh heh," he chuckled nervously. They stepped onto the wooden dance floor and began to do the schottische dance. Everybody there could've sworn they were a couple because of the brilliant chemistry radiating off of them and their dance moves. A woman nearby scolded to her husband,

"Why don't you ever dance like that with _me_?!"

The liveliness of the music ended and so began the slow-dancing portion. Some of the men were gagging and making faces over their dates' shoulders. They were not paired with very good dancing partners, it seemed. John's face went red all the way to his ears.

"Um...Sherlock...I dunno if I actually feel comfortable with dancing any longer. I mean, what if they stare? And it's not just that, either. It's the fact that I can't slow-da - "

"Shhhh, John," Sherlock hushed gently, placing a finger tip on John's lips. John looked up nervously, his face heated up like the sun. Sherlock leaned forward so that his ever-sexy voice tickled John's ear with every word spoken. "I happen to be a slow-dancing connoisseur. Surely I could lead the way, could I not?"

"Well, I suppose so, but - "

"Then let me show you," Sherlock interrupted. He held out his hand once again, and John had the option of taking it or leaving it. Eventually, he decided to take it. After all, he would be doing it with the man he loved, not some stranger or a woman.

They started out with John's hands on Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock's hands on John's waist. They stayed like that for a while until they both mutually decided to move closer. Then, John's arms were locked around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around his waist. Finally, they closed the gap. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock kept his arms around John's waist save his right hand, which massaged the nape of his neck.

This felt far from ordinary to John. He wasn't stroking him like he _usually_ did. This time, it felt more affectionate and soft in a way. They barely talked, but when they did, it was about how the other was dancing beautifully. More often than not, they made eye contact. Sherlock's cyan lakes smiled at John's chocolate mud. Once again, everybody agreed that they were the cutest and best-dancing couple there. Little did they know that they still had a hell of a lot to admit to each other.

Once the dancing was finished, it was time to go home. Job was about to get into the car to drive to the nearest hotel when Sherlock motioned him to wait and grabbed both of his hands.

"I-I had fun. Did _you_?" he asked more shyly than usual. John blushed at the contact before nodding.

"Yeah, that was nice. I'd do it again if-if you asked..." He did not dare speak any longer when Sherlock tenderly planted a kiss on the back of his hand. In fact, they stood there like morons for about a minute until they couldn't help it anymore. They closed their eyes and started to lean forward, slowly puckering their lips -

BEEP! The car behind them honked their horn and they cussed before moving out of the way. They did not discuss what happened that night. They didn't even know that they were leaning forward to kiss each other. But later in the evening, as John was cradled into a sleeping Sherlock's arms again, he resolved to let him know exactly how he felt before it was too late.

**A/N: Note to self: when I stay up late and write this while listening to "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri, I practically cry from the cuteness. Also, I wrote about Boston Harbor on Independence Day? Awesome! ...Augh, another long chapter!**


	6. Paging Dr Holmes

**A/N: Wow, this story is really popular! More than 500 views since yesterday?! Holy criminy! ...Okay, on a more serious note, this is the third and final "story" before Sherlock and John grow up and confess already! :-) ****In this chapter, John gets food poisoning from one of the food stuffs he ate the night before and Sherlock nominates himself as doctor. I was inspired by feeling crappy after staying up late all those nights. ...Whoops. Enjoy! Please R & R!**

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

Sand blew in his eyes, stinging his very soul. All he could see for miles upon miles were desert dunes that peaked into the very sky, it seemed. The sun was beating upon his back and he crawled across the desert sand, his lips begging for water. Perspiration flowed from him in cascades and he could feel his energy levels slowly beginning to drop. His lips were now bleeding angrily, demanding,

"Where's my _water_?!" But he would not come across any for miles. Finally, the heat got to him and he collapsed due to heat stroke.

John woke up with a start, realizing it had all only been a dream. However, the heat and the cracked lips were real, along with the pool of perspiration he awoke in. Which meant, of course, he had soaked Sherlock with his own sweat. He was amazed with Sherlock's ability to sleep through almost anything, but right now, he was suffocating the life out of him. Plus, he had no idea what the dream even meant.

All of a sudden, he felt a lurch in his stomach. **Oh, shite,** he thought. His face turned green and he tasted scallops, the substance that made him sick: bingo. He struggled to get free from Sherlock's grasp, but naturally, the taller man only tightened his grip.

"Zzzz...No, Teddy! Don't leave me! Stayyyy..." Sherlock begged in his sleep. John cursed. If he didn't do something about this soon, he was sure to throw up on his best friend. Just then, he came up with an idea.

"Hey, look, Sherlock! A dead body!" he said, as if he were talking to an awake five-year-old. Sherlock sat up in his sleep, immediately releasing John and allowing him to breathe.

"_Where_?!" he demanded eagerly. ZOOM! Just like that, John sprinted to the bathroom as if he were Usain Bolt, leaving poor Sherlock behind. The other man got on all fours and placed his hands on random spots in front of him like an old lady looking for her glasses. "Zzzz...Hey. Where did Teddy go?" he whined childishly.

Once John got to the bathroom, he slid onto his knees, threw open the toilet cover, and retched loudly. Sherlock was immediately awakened by the sound of his friend puking his guts out and rushed to the bathroom as quickly as his legs could carry him. He opened the door with a force that made it slam into the wall.

"John! John, are you alrigh - " He was stopped by the single image of John laying on the floor, clutching his stomach and cringing in pain. His face was pasty and colorless and his lips were dry and quivering. There was a speck of puke by the corner of his mouth and his whole body was trembling. The most noticeable feature, though, was his eyes. They were glistening with unshed tears and the main message they seemed to be protruding was, "Please help me."

It was the worst he had ever seen his friend and it broke Sherlock's heart to see him that way. It was because of the man laying on that floor that made him realize that he did, in fact, have one. Carefully, Sherlock strode over to where he was and helped him up. Instead of leaving it at that, however, he picked him up bridal-style and carried him out. John could've argued against it, but he was too tired and nauseous to do so. And besides, Sherlock was handling him so steadily and gingerly, unlike the doctors that handled him in the hospital.

He felt himself being placed into bed and the covers being swarmed around him. Sherlock gave him a throw-up bucket for the moment.

"Sleep. You'll feel better," he whispered. Eventually, John fell asleep when Sherlock's hand smoothed his hair down in a steady pattern. Sometimes, he woke up and hurled. Each time, Sherlock would wake up and rub his back while he did. Then, he would fall back asleep by the hushing sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth and the hand stroking his hair. It was like that since midnight.

In the morning, Sherlock moved John to the sofa and covered him in a blanket, also taking care to clean out the throw-up bucket and leave it next to him. The smell alone made John throw up, as well as the taste of scallops. He could never eat them ever again without recognizing that taste and feeling sick.

"_I _am the doctor, now," Sherlock announced with pride, "And _you_ are my patient." He smiled and brushed some of John's hair out of the way to feel his forehead. Immediately, he frowned in thought, forming duck lips. "Hmm..." Then he placed the thermometer in John's mouth. " Ah _ha_. Just as I thought. You have a temperature of 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit. I shall get you some crushed ice to cool you down. After all, you must have your fluids."

He walked to the fridge with a casual swiftness and fetched some ice chips in a plastic cup. John noted how quick and observant he was. Back in the hospital, the other doctors were sluggish and clueless. He felt slightly grumpy because he couldn't drink anything caffeinated, but his grouchiness was revoked by the idea of his best friend (and the apple of his eye) taking care of him.

Sherlock came back with the crushed ice in his hand and set it in John's hand for him to hold. Then he went to the kitchen once more and unpacked all his beakers and graduated cylinders. John laughed weakly.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock smiled at him with an undefinable sincerity.

"I am conducting the scientific experiment of making lunch for my dear friend," he replied, making John's heart flutter. He watched curiously as he used the graduated cylinder to pour broth into a beaker. Or was it water? John didn't know: his mind was getting fuzzy with drowsiness.

Soon, he fell asleep on the couch. Sherlock observed the sleeping man for a minute and thought about how adorable he was before he gently caressed his face and whispered that it was time to wake up.

John awoke and saw that Sherlock was smiling almost shyly at him.

**What a nice thing to wake up to,** he thought.

"Your lunch is ready," said Sherlock. John took a look at the tray in his hands. There was green tea and chicken noodle soup. Since he couldn't quite reach his food without cringing from abdominal pain, Sherlock took the pleasure in feeding him. Slowly and expertly, he spooned the hot soup into his mouth and cupped the back of his neck to lift his lips to the tea cup.

John was astounded by his careful grace. The doctors in the hospital weren't NEARLY that elegant in skill. They were clumsy bumblers that were about as proficient as a turkey. Next, Sherlock sat next to John and they talked for a while to preoccupy his mind from his illness. After a while, he clutched his stomach in pain and moaned silently.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, chewing his lip in concern.

"Oh, it's nothing, I just have to go to the bathroom," John replied. Immediately, Sherlock helped him up and guided him there with one arm slung under his armpit. Once, John felt dizzy and started to fall forward.

"Woah, easy, there," Sherlock chuckled, catching him just in time. He opened the door and closed it after he was assured that John made it safely. He could hear sounds of agony coming from the bathroom and nodded understandingly. Diarrhea was tough business.

Later, John came out with a humiliated and tortured look on his face which disappeared when Sherlock led him back to the sofa. Pretty soon, John stopped throwing up altogether and he was told that the green tea would mend his stomach and play a significant part in stopping the abdominal pain. He slept for most of the day and Sherlock observed him silently.

He was fascinated by the long eyelashes that rested upon his cheeks. He was fascinated by the rhythmic patterns of breathing that flowed from his nose. But most of all, he was fascinated by the smile that formed on his face and the hand that reached out to grip his, whether it was intentional or not. Sleep was good for the body as well as building Sherlock's attraction to the lethargic man.

That night, John was in much better condition than he was, say, twenty hours ago, but he still needed a large amount of rest. Sherlock kept this in mind and advised John that he ought to get to sleep no matter how hard it seemed at the moment. After all, John HAD slept for most of the day since midnight.

The blonde-haired man thought about how excellent Sherlock had been all day. He thought about his quickness, his gentleness, his kindness, his devotedness...

"I don't know how I'll ever repay you," he admitted out loud in a tired voice when Sherlock tucked him in that night. The taller man merely chuckled.

"Balderdash. Taking care of you _is _my reward." There was a passion in his voice connected to those words and John quite liked it. His heart caused him to speak his next thoughts.

" I feel even better already. You're a damned good doctor," he drawled. Now it was _Sherlock's_ turn to blush and batter his eyelashes sheepishly. He found that he could no longer hold in his inner-most confession.

"John? This is going to sound ridiculous, but I don't like hiding my feelings all that much. John, I lo - " He was interrupted by the sound of John snoring in the spot next to him. He chuckled, shook his head, and stroked his hair. "Never mind, I can wait."

Then, he yawned and lay down before falling asleep as well. After two more days, John was well again. They headed back to England and John was able to eat solid food once more. Sherlock felt sad, because this meant that he wasn't the doctor anymore. At the same time, though, he was glad for his friend's well-being.

"What are _you_ smiling at?" he asked jokingly one night as they got into their shared bed at the flat.

"Well, I was just thinking about how funny it was, that thing you said. Back at the hospital, the doctors demanded lots of money in return for being their patient even though they weren't very good. Yet, here _you_ are, as an _outstanding_ doctor, but all you ask for is the opportunity to take care of me. Nothing more, nothing less," said John.

"It's true, though. I don't need money to get that smile of yours every time I assist you," Sherlock replied. John only smiled and looked away, blushing.

"I really like you," he whispered, before falling asleep. Sherlock heard the words escape his mouth and blushed before following his lead.

**And I, you,** he thought, whilst stroking his hair and gently planting a soft peck on his forehead.


	7. Horrid Nightmare

A/N: Okay, so I lied...sorta. This is the part where John has another nightmare, but the confession will come soon, I promise! In this chapter, it explains the terrible nightmare John has that night, which is an important part in the story. You shall see why. Enjoy! Please R & R!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

John woke up the next morning and yawned before leaning over to wake up his friend.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up," he said. Sherlock grunted and turned over in his sleep. John frowned. "Now Sherlock, I mean it. You don't want to miss a case today. Come on, get up." Sherlock cursed before he finally sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.

"What did you do _that_ for?!" he demanded angrily, his eyes converting into fierce blue fireballs. John was frightened by his sudden demeanor. He was not like the "gentle giant" he had come to known.

"I-I'm sorry. I had to - "

"Just leave me _alone_, you bastard!" Sherlock began rushing out of the room. John was very distressed.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, _wait_! We can talk this out, we're _friends_, remember?!"

"No we're not! Who the hell _are_ you?! Go away!" Sherlock shouted, before slamming the door behind him with a furious force. In that instant, the floorboards broke beneath the bed. John found himself tumbling into a dark, abyssal, everlasting, frightening pit of doom. But something wasn't right: how come it never ended?

In the time it took for John to realize exactly this, he landed face first onto the ground, his bed no where in sight. He managed to get up and observe his surroundings. He was in his Army uniform and all he could see for miles upon end were the familiar desert bushes and arid climate. The hairs on his neck and back bristled. This only meant one thing: Afghanistan.

His breath became heavy with fear. As much as he was addicted to danger, he gradually became afraid of his Afghanistan-related dreams. They filled him with anxiety and dread rather than adrenaline and excitement. This kind of danger was not adventurous: it was the kind that made you want to run home and crawl right back under your bed covers.

He felt himself beginning to panic when gunshots fired at him. He heard men shouting at him in Pashto to get out. His head spun and his eyes rolled back in his sockets with fear. Just then, he heard the familiar crunching sound he had heard that same fateful day and yelled as blood began to pour out of his body. He became unconscious within the intense, sweltering heat of the battlefield.

When he opened his eyes again, there were doctors. But these were not skillful and kind doctors, like Sherlock. These doctors were mean, demanding, and clumsy. They cursed at him and denied any requests for water or a toilet. The room stank of ammonia and decaying flesh. Clearly, theses doctors hadn't cleaned up the room in forever or at all in their lives.

"Damn whiny-arse!" one of the doctors cursed.

"The poor widdle baby wants his pwecious potty-wotty!" the second doctor taunted.

The third doctor jammed a needle in his belly button and he screeched in pain. He looked at the bleeding spot on his left arm from a missing chunk of flesh.

"What happened?! Why am I here?! Who are you?!" he cried, clearly in a terrible shock. The doctors looked annoyed.

"Why should we tell _you_, you frickin' shite?!" the first doctor demanded.

"Yeah, shut up and go suck your lollipop!" the second doctor sneered.

The third doctor stuck a needle in John's neck and he cried out in pain once again. Just then, Sherlock showed up. He smiled, tears forming in his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're _here_! Quick, come get me _out_ of this crazy-arse place!" Now, the Sherlock _he_ knew would've rushed up to John, made sure he was okay, and kicked those doctors' arses, but _this_ Sherlock looked at him sadly and shook his head before walking away. John tried reaching out to him.

"No! No, _please_! Sherlock, please, _help_ me!" But it was too late. Sherlock disappeared. The doctors tied him down to the bed, turned him onto his stomach, and laughed evilly except for the third doctor who repeatedly stabbed John in the butt with several needles at a time. John could feel himself bleeding and he screamed bloody murder, calling everybody, somebody, _anybody_ for help. Then, at once, that part of his nightmare faded and he wasn't in Afghanistan any longer.

Now, he was in the ocean in the middle of a torrential downpour. Dark billowy clouds up above sobbed upon the Earth and sent loud thunder claps and flashes of lightning. John was soaked and chilled to the very marrows of his bones as tsunamis higher than Big Ben crashed upon the ship he steered. Within the midst of the sea, he saw Sherlock's body floating on a piece of driftwood over the gargantuan waves.

"_Sherlock_!...Hang on, I'll save you!" he shouted. He steered over to where he was, but the taller man did not stir. Suddenly, a whirlpool appeared and they were spinning towards the middle of it. He tried to steer against it, but the wheel broke off the ship. Alas, they plunged through the middle of the pool, swallowed by its massiveness. But instead of drowning, like one usually would in a whirlpool, John landed in the next sequence of his nightmare.

He was a nine-year-old kid again, wearing a beige wool sweater and black high knee-socks with short shorts and brown Oxfords. He shivered in fright, remembering this day all too well.

"Oi! There he is! Get 'im!" a young and rowdy voice barked.

"Yeah, let's teach him a lesson!" another voice agreed. These voices belonged to some bullies that John faced as a kid. They were angry with him because he kicked one of their sand castles down unintentionally. His breathing became heavy and laced with fear once more as he began to run away from the bullies. However, he was stopped by a majority of school kids who were also against him because according to them he was "lower class".

He tripped over one of his shoe laces and landed face first upon the asphalt. The bullies caught up too quickly for him to run any longer. The biggest one lifted John by the collar.

"Hey, kid! You got any money on you?!" he demanded. John's jaw hung agape and he shook his head. The bully growled in frustration. "Well, I guess we'll have to teach 'im a _lesson_, then! C'mon, Jack! You know what to do!" The other bully, Jack, threw a punch at John, who stumbled backwards and fell. Patrick, the biggest one, picked him back up only to knock him off his feet again.

"Somebody help me!" John bellowed in a frightened manner. Nobody listened to his pleas. They all stood around him, singing,

"John is a baby~! John is a baby~!"

"I am not a baby!" John protested, frustrated that nobody was helping him. He kept getting punched. He tried to fight back, but the bullies were too strong. Finally, John lay on the ground, unable to move. Patrick snickered.

"Hey, Jack! You know, I've gotta go to the bathroom..." John looked up in fear as the crowd began to jeer. Patrick came closer and started unzipping the fly of his trousers.

"No! No, _wait_! _Stop_! Don't - " Too late. Patrick pissed all over John and everybody either laughed or cringed from the smell. John sobbed, his eyes welling up with tears and stinging pee. It was one of the worst days of his life. Just then, he found himself rolling and crying still, but he wasn't nine or attending school anymore. He was his regular age and he was in Moriarty's lair.

Moriarty looked upon him with a creepy and eccentric stare, his crown on his head and his throne nearby.

"Ah, Johnathan! So coincidental I should see _you_ here!" he cackled. John gasped as lightning cracked in the background.

"What do you _want_ from me?!" he cried, curling his fists inward. Moriarty sneered and continued to stare into his soul with his big eyes and his creepy-arse smile.

"I have your precious Sherlock," he replied nonchalantly. He snapped his fingers and Sherlock appeared. John looked at him angrily as he approached Moriarty's side.

"_Sherlock_?!..._Sherlock_! I have been worried sick about you, mister, and yet you suddenly disap - " He was quelled by the single image of Sherlock uncovering his helmet and showing that his mouth had been sewn into a forced toothy smile. John's eyes expanded at the sight and the song from the shower scene in Psycho began playing. He, too, screamed, and Moriarty laughed with pleasure, taking joy in the deed he had done.

Everything spun out of control, and John ran towards nothing with the laughs of horrible people echoing in his head. The laughs of the three doctors. The laughs of Patrick and Jack. The laughs of the little school children. The laugh of Moriarty. All directed towards him.

Just then, he was laying in a casket of some sort, designed to look like a wooden box. A demonic face was looking at him from above.

"Please help me!" he cried. The face only laughed and shut the lid above him. Then, he continued to laugh whilst carrying the casket. Then, he strapped John to the inside of it with chains and placed it into a bath tub. He turned on the faucet whilst whistling an ugly, shrieky tune. Red and black overtones loomed all around.

"No! No, please stop! Help me!" he cried, but the person with the face cackled extra loudly and left. John sobbed and began to drown in the casket...all alone...in the dark...where nobody could find him... "_Sherlock_!" he hollered, but thunder cracked extra loudly and shook the house like a gun shot. It was too late. He, John Watson, was dying. He sobbed himself to death that very night until he was floating, dead, in the bath tub.


	8. Freaking Finally

A/N: I think you can guess how I "came up" with the chapter title. I, too, have been waiting for this moment. I will now stop talking so you can read. Enjoy!

Please R & R!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

Crrrrack! BOOM!

"AAAA!" John screamed, as he sat up in bed. Sherlock's arms were not around him. The light was turned on, however, and there was a thunder storm outside. He took a look at his surroundings. At the water streaming down the window pane, at the lamp shining nearby, at the bed sheets, at Sherlock's partially-parted lips...then, all at once, he started to cry.

Sherlock was awake. He had been ever since the beginning of John's nightmare. He had held him close to his heart, saying,

"John! No, John! I'm right here, love, I'm not going anywhere!" But John hadn't listened. The nightmare had haunted his mind. Now, he held John close to his heart once again, gently rocking him back and forth and whispering soft reassurances in his hair. John held a fistful of Sherlock's t-shirt and sobbed into his chest.

"But - But I was dead! And you-you were gone - "

"Shhhh, John," Sherlock muttered, pressing his lips to John's temple. The soft, breathy warmth caused John to look up in bewilderment. He stared as tears continued to fall down his cheeks. Sherlock wiped some of the hot droplets away with his thumb.

"Don't cry. You're too beautiful to cry. It doesn't suit you," he whispered tenderly before kissing every tear-covered spot on John's face that he could find, slowly cleansing him in a loving manner. John could barely speak. But when he could, he laughed.

"Look at you! Telling me what suits me and what doesn't! Classic!" he giggled. Sherlock stopped kissing away his tears for just a second and smiled down at the shorter man.

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose it is." They sat there like that for a while, just drinking in each other's features, until John was reduced to sniffles and hiccups. Eventually, John worked up the courage to tell Sherlock what his nightmare was about while the other man laid his hand on top of his. As soon as he finished, Sherlock turned and hugged him.

"I'm so sorry that happened, John. I'm glad you told me about it. So...do you need anything? How about some ice cream?" John nodded. After all, he just barely got over a nightmare. He wanted something sweet to forget about it forever.

Sherlock got out of the bed and brought John some ice cream in a bowl along with his own. John thanked him and he nodded. They ate the ice cream together. After they were done, and had put the dishes in the sink for poor Mrs. Hudson to take care of, they both just sat up against the headboard, fumbling with their articles of clothing.

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"There's probably something I should tell you." That got Sherlock's attention in no time and he turned around to face the blonde-haired man.

"Well, go on, then," he urged gently. John's face ducked down in embarrassment and he mumbled the next few words more bashfully than ever.

"So, I've, um...I've been having these feelings. They uh...er...they're about uh...you. Heh heh. Yeah, it turns out I kind of like y - oh, who am I _kidding_?! I love everything _about_ you! Your smile, your intelligence, your kindness, your passion..._everything_! I love it when we talk and you giggle about something, when you hold my hand when I feel scared, your beautiful eyes and hair...I can't _stand_ it! And I can't live with myself for not saying this sooner, but I was so afraid of what would happen! You must think that I'm some creepy idiot who is so god-damn socially awkward when it comes to talking to you! I've been gay for you all along and it took me nearly a year to _realize_ it! And I'm sorry, but it's just - I _love_ you, _okay_?! There, I frickin' _said_ it! I - I - I - I - "

Sherlock lifted his chin so that he was looking into his eyes instead of at the ground. His facial expression wasn't the easiest to read, but John swore to God that he was the most beautiful-looking man on Earth within that moment. His aquamarine eyes, his silky chocolate-brown hair,and his lips, parted with surprise, enraptured John like nobody had ever done before. After a while, Sherlock spoke. His voice was very astonished and timid.

"Actually, John, you're the bravest idiot I have ever known. The fact that you can confess how you feel out loud without throwing up makes me feel slightly jealous. I cry every time I have an emotion outside of the house. That is why I should tell you how I feel a different way," Sherlock whispered.

"What way is that?" asked John. Sherlock looked at him.

"Get out your cell phone." John obeyed and Sherlock got out his cell phone as well. Then, Sherlock texted John and his phone buzzed. Then, he read the message.

[ I've _also_ been having feelings for 're bigger than what I've felt for anybody else all my life. I love your smile, your blush, your humor, your vulnerability..._everything_. Your blonde hair and cocoa eyes are riveting to me, and I find what you call your "social awkwardness" to be adorable as _hell_. I'm even more of a creepy idiot than you will ever be because I can't seem to admit my feelings out loud. I've admired you ever since you came to share this flat with me. I didn't know what the feeling was, but all I _did_ know was that I felt as if I were flying, almost. Eventually, I grew to realize that I needed you in my life. I may be a coward when it comes to saying this, but at least I'm not afraid to say - ]

"I love you too," Sherlock said, just as John finished reading the text. John's eyes welled up with tears. This was painfully romantic. Sherlock laughed and wiped his tears away. "Now, what did I tell you before?" he scolded jokingly.

"Right! Sorry!" John stammered, playing along. Then, he, too, texted a message. Sherlock's phone buzzed. He read it:

[ So, what do we do _now_? ]

Sherlock smiled at the simple question and texted back his perfect answer.

[ We kiss, idiot. :-) ]

John blushed and sent back,

[ Well, I know you're afraid, so I'll send you one first. Here: :-3 *makes smooching noise*]

Sherlock laughed out loud and replied,

[ Not _that_ kind, silly! _This_ kind! ]

Then, with that, he cupped John's face and brushed his lips against his in the softest of motions. John hitched his breath for a second before he started to reciprocate Sherlock's kiss and he placed his hands on his cheeks. Both men closed their eyes, savoring the sweet moment being shared between them.


	9. Epilogue

A/N: So, this is the last chapter of our story, I am sorry to say. And, like the prologue, it has a boring title and it's in Sherlock's point of view. Thank you for reading. Enjoy! Pleases R & R!

(Sherlock P.O.V.)

Talking to him felt nice. Embracing him against my body...nice. But _kissing_ him? As in, landing him one right on the lips? That felt..._beyond_ nice. Hell, it was _amazing_.

I was so overwhelmed with happiness when he confessed his inner-most feelings and I wanted to kiss him right on the spot. But you know, being me, I make sure everything is as classy as possible. I wanted the moment to be perfect, so I used my fear of showing emotions to my advantage.

Everything else in the world, within that moment, was of utter insignificance. It was neither a demanding kiss nor a hesitant one. It was a resolving kiss. A kiss that solved every problem that formed in our minds. Did he think about me often? Could he see my attraction to him? What if he didn't love me back? Those problems were all solved the moment I placed my lips on John's.

It turned out that he thought of me _more_ than often, he was too busy wondering about _his_ attraction for _me_, and he _definitely_ loved me back. I liked every answer and I smiled against his lips. He followed my lead. Eventually, we pulled apart, though hesitantly. We were both so flustered and giggly.

"I almost forgot...what time is it?" John asked. I checked my phone.

"12:49 AM," I answered. He laughed.

"Aw, man! I'm gonna feel like _shite_ tomorrow!" I laughed too, before I kicked his foot. He kicked mine back. We played "Footsies" for a while until we both got tired and were yawning visibly.

John laid his head down on my chest and I automatically wrapped my arms around him.

"G'night, big guy," he whispered lethargically.

"Good night, John," I replied, planting a kiss in his golden tresses before stroking them and helping him to fall asleep. I, however, did not fall asleep quite just yet. I was too busy reminiscing about my life B.J. (Before John).

I remembered how I stayed up late that one night and thought about all of the terrible stuff going on in my life. Most notable was that I didn't have a friend to laugh, tell jokes, punch ribs, order coffee, finish sentences, hold hands, or cuddle with. Those people in the park used to make me jealous. But that night, I actually _pitied_ them. After all, they didn't get to do the things that _John_ and I did.

They didn't get to carry bridal-style, take care of, cry, dance, hug, solve mysteries, or kiss with _their_ friends. And there was so much more where _that_ came from, too. I no longer had to stare at the empty pillow next to my head and feel depressed about it. Now, it was empty because that person's head was sleeping contently upon my chest at that very instant.

Whenever I spoke to him, he wasn't annoyed. He smiled. Whenever I got angry, he wasn't afraid. He was there by my side, defending me or calming me down ever-so-sweetly. Whenever I used nicotine patches or failed to be nice (I am capable of such emotions now) that day, he wasn't disappointed. He just chuckled and said that tomorrow was another day.

I wanted so damn badly to rub it in the face of whoever said I would never be loved. I wanted to march up to them, John in hand, kiss him hard, and shout, "_See_?! I _told_ you!" But then I figured that it would ruin the moment. Besides, I wanted that person to see for himself. I wanted him to be walking home from work someday and then catch sight of me walking down the street with my dearest John.

I would have a possessive arm draped around his shoulder and his arm would be around my waist. We would be laughing and enjoying each other's company. The man would be mildly disturbed let alone surprised by the sight, and he would get a bunch of _his_ friends. He would point at us and say,

"Would you look at _that_?! There goes Sherlock Holmes with his dearest friend, Dr. John Watson! Who woulda _thunk_ it?!" Then, they would stare after us with slacking jaws and I would wink ever-knowingly. Long ago, I asked myself who would want to be friends with me. That night, I knew: the sweetest person in the world, on top of a person who is almost the complete opposite of me. We were like the Odd Couple, except English.

Even if I was a misanthrope and I was a little distant towards most people, he still accepted me for who I was. I, in return, accepted him for who _he_ was. We had a mutual understanding about each other that was not common in even the _truest_ of friends. This was because we weren't just true friends. We were soul mates. The very definition of a perfect match.

Now, I'll admit. It was not love at first sight. Or second. Or third, or fourteenth, or twenty-ninth, or fifty-sixth. It was love before I even met him. Somewhere, out there, somebody loved me. He just happened to be that person. Sometimes I wished I knew him before that eventful day on the park bench, but then the moment wouldn't have been special.

I wouldn't have sat there in pain, angsting what was left of my heart out, if I was meant to be there to hear a sweet, angelic voice say hello to me and sit down next to me. When we watched that sunset together, my heart slowly began to heal. He had stolen my heart, healed it with his kindness, and given it back to me, brand new and jovial now that he was there.

I patted myself on the back in my head immediately after I met him, for I had met the perfect friend and he was living here in London the whole time. I found somebody who loves me. Somebody who listens to every word I say. Somebody who looks up to me as if I am some sort of god. Most of all, though, I found somebody who understands. **And what,** I thought, as I began to fall asleep, **could possibly be better than ****_that_****?**


End file.
